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Thursday, December 17, 2015

Earth Day Every Day is a bi-monthly series of essays I write for the Bowen Bulletin, re-published here for fun!

~

At the community
choir concert this past stormy weekend, every choir member carried a flash light. If the power had gone out (which, unfortunately, it
didn't), they would have continued by flash light, as they did briefly
at one of their rehearsals, last month. So in one of our quirky Bowen
moments, the choir left the stage with headlamps and flash lights in
hand, and three headlamps still dangling from the rungs of a stool, on stage. And during intermission we hung around in the foyer of the
Chapel, and some of us out in the windy dark night.

This is the time of
darkness, when life and community brings us out to walk around
carolling or shopping or visiting with friends, and an increasing
amount of that time is spent in the dark. There's something about the
lack of light that makes us appreciate the gift of it, and everything
else we often take for granted. As the sun drops off our horizon, we
begin to see in different ways.

Dusk is confusing to
me; my mind still believes I can see, but my eyes struggle to resolve
the vast array of patterned greys. It's like being lost in the
half-tones of a rich intaglio print, and eventually I lose visual
focus, reverting to other senses, as recourse. Have you ever noticed
the sound of bats' wings as they turn in flight, or the buzz of a
nighthawk's dive? It's a sound that strikes me at the top of my
spine, as the world falls into dark.

I like to walk
through the woods without a flash light. During my many walks
throughout the year I have come to know these woods, so that darkness
brings new experiences, but not often new footing. Still I have to
feel my way along, and go much more slowly than I would during the
day. The moon is a welcome lamp, but on moonless nights, like the one
last week between the storms, even the stars give light. It takes a
certain amount of darkness to be able to notice the stars' light
falling between the boughs of hemlock and cedar. I enjoy the softness
of soggy needles underfoot, and the cool refreshing damp of the air
on my cheeks. This is the joy of living in a rural place where we
choose wilderness over concrete; sensual exploration over street lights and expediency. Especially at this time of year.

This is the time of
darkness – not just because of the number of daylight hours, but
because of the power outages, throwing our families into impromptu
candlelight dinners and wood-stove-cooked meals, necessitating
neighbourly helping-out, caretaking and community. We chose this
island; we chose this lifestyle, and many of us delight in the
inconvenience. This is the time we celebrate the darkness by lighting
our cove and our homes, and by singing to our trees. Yes, my family
sings to our trees.

On Midwinter morning
we go out to get a Christmas tree. It's always a tree that is slated
or fated to come down anyway, and we bring it inside to decorate. As
we hang up the cherished ornaments, some of them generations old, we
sing, and share memories of years past. As the longest night of the
year falls around us, we hit the main breaker for the house, light
lanterns from the fire in the wood stove, and parade out into the
dark, weaving a stream of firelight through the yard. We sing the
Tree Wassail to all the fruit trees and to many other cherished
trees, as well. As we walk around singing, tripping, laughing,
holding hands and trekking through swampy areas, we feel the world
around us. In rainy years, the rain slips in around our necks and
soaks our heads as we go. When it's frosty the grass crunches under
our feet and sometimes the sky opens up to reflect our fire with
starlight.

When we've sung to
the trees, we return inside, where we take the fire from our lanterns
and light the candles on the Christmas tree, symbolically bringing
the light we originally took from the wood stove back in to light our
home. And then of course we sit around singing together all evening.
That's how we spend our Midwinter, singing to the trees.

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Emily van Lidth de Jeude is a social practice artist, as well as a mother, unschooler, and explorative learning facilitator.